Hark! A Vagrant
by Wolvenflower
Summary: Magic AU where John is a healer who is estranged from his village when he is framed for arson. He meets a wandering winged man, and they investigate crimes. There will be more chapters, but this can also be a stand alone. Pre-slash if you want it to be.
1. Main Adventure

**((****_This can be pre-slash if you want it to be. _****"Hark! A vagrant," is a command for Sherlock, and it is derived from some comic that I don't read, I just saw the words on Topatoco, and I liked them so I made a draw and then this sort of just happened. Oh and some things you may actually want to know: I don't stick to canon parallels, though I will try to incorporate lines when relevant, and also I don't go in order of the cases. I do what I want. Also this took me ages to write and my style varies from day to day. Keep in mind this is a fantasy AU, so the killer will not necessarily be human all the time. Why a fantasy AU, you ask? 'Cus I'm lazy, that's why, and I don't wanna do research.))I apologise for all the snark and sarcasm.**

* * *

John watched his breath turn to steam in the air, feeling the slightest pang of irritation that the atmosphere was stealing his warmth from him. He laced his worn leather boots almost up to his knees before giving the laces a hard tug then tying them in a neat knot. The soles of his boots crunched in the snow as he stood up. Taking a deep breath of frigid air that burned his nose, he gazed out across the barren plain. Damn, he thought, that'll be a bitch to cross.

He packed up his gear, took care to stamp out the last few embers still glowing from last night's fire. No one could know he had been there. In fact, no living thing could ever know he had been anywhere at all. He looked down at the smoking wood in the ashes under his feet. How ironic, he thought, that I should be reluctant to leave the fire. I should resent the flames; they're what cast me away into the snow. He laughed quietly to the sky. John Watson, the village healer, freezes to death after being framed for arson.

People were fools. Really though, what arsonist would be stupid enough to allow the blaze to catch his own home on fire? he wondered. No matter, it wouldn't help him now. Even if he had a home to go back to, he still would've been viewed as a criminal. The healer would miss his cozy little home, but he wasn't ever going back to the grave of his life. Nothing to go back to, now, no one would trust him if he was the sole suspect of arson. That put him out of a job. Besides, he had no desire to return to where his sister had perished in the blaze, too drunk to escape. He left no trace of ever being there, and set off into an empty, silent world.

* * *

The Belstaff was rough, but it was very good at keeping him warm. Sherlock decided his skin would be alright with the scratchy fabric if it meant fending off hypothermia. Hypothermia was a problem. Very irritating.  
He shook his wings free of the light dusting of snow that had been accumulating for the past half hour. Tiny ice crystals slid off the smooth black feathers and fell to the barely white ground as he walked.

Snow. That's all there was these days, snow and cold. He sometimes wondered if he should long for home, family, and warmth. He didn't though; he had no home; not particularly fond of family; and warmth had never been something he'd been well acquainted with. No, he was long past any feelings resembling home sickness. He'd left home long ago, and never looked back. There really hadn't been any reason for him to.

And so he wandered. He had become nothing but a ghost through villages, or a lone black form on vast and empty grassland, or another quiet creature haunting the forest. He'd never spend long in one place, not because he wasn't able to, but because he did have the ability to move. Each new place became boring, became tiring, became old. Villages were only briefly graced with his presence for a few nights if he could even be attracted to the place by a particularly good murder. Sherlock definitely preferred the forests. In the ever changing forests, where the entire wood would be in some way new after every dawn, he could be a specter, never really there. He would simply assimilate himself to the other shadows of the wood, and if ever someone were to notice him, either they would fear he was a vicious beast, or he could disappear into the trees.

He did so hate leaving the trees. They offered him easy cover, solitude, and anonymity. But there was a gang of bandits in this forest now, a fairly large one. Normally, he would deduce their crimes and turn them in, but these weren't even talented thieves, just a band who made clumsy attempts at an occasional raid. Lowly criminals like these weren't worth bothering with.

Step after step, he drifted with the snow further and further from the protection of the great oaks and silver maples. If he had been more sentimental, he would have silently thanked them for granting him their protection for the few nights he stayed in the treetops. But he really didn't do that sort of thing, so he just lengthened his stride a little, eager to find somewhere new where he could be left alone.

Hearing a noise, his head snapped toward to the sound. His light coloured eyes searched frantically for the disturbance of the quiet symphony of winter. His sharp vision came to rest on a snowy owl, which had taken off from a lonely tree. Teal-grey eyes followed the soft white wings as the owl swooped gracefully into the snow with perfect, precise movement. As the owl lifted from the ground, a field mouse between its talons, he felt his own wings twitch, itching to take flight.

He briefly considered indulging himself, but forced himself to ignore the desire to rise above the earth, search for a new forest from the sky. Brown curls bounced as he shook his head in an attempt to clear the fantasy from his mind. No matter how acute the wish to fly was, he couldn't, not here, it would be far too risky. His dark coat and massive black wings would be far too noticeable on the landscape of white and sky of grey. He was far from stupid, so he would repress the will of his wings. He kept walking, grounded as he moved.

* * *

John rubbed his hands together furiously, cursing under his breath while he trudged through the snow. It hadn't stopped snowing for even a moment all day, and it was beginning to deepen a little too much for the reluctant traveler's liking. Soon it would start to seep in through his tough brown boots and chill him to his bones.

Bit not good, he thought to himself, and with snowstorm picking up I won't even be able to see. Fuck. Fuck this, fuck everything. Growling, he pulled his coat tighter around himself. He'd been walking for hours in worsening conditions, and all of this on top of four nights of intermittent sleep. He really ought to find shelter, trees, bushes, something. But the wilderness was cold and unforgiving. John scanned the landscape and it became clear that no hospitality would be offered here. All he could see for at least a mile was just white ground, anything beyond that the snow ensured would be cloaked from the man's sight.

But John, ever persevering, continued on. He kept walking when he couldn't feel his feet anymore. He kept walking when he couldn't quite move his fingers anymore. When he felt frostbite sink into his ears, he still had no choice but to keep walking. He walked for what he guessed was about another forty-five minutes before he noticed something about three hundred yards out.

It was far too small for John to determine what it was, but it was something other than snow, and the idea of that was extremely appealing to him. His mood improved the little bit that it could at the thought, so he approached it. As he came closer, he realised it was a man, and he was infinitely grateful that at least he wasn't going to die alone in the cold. But when the man was close enough to see, John's heart dropped.

Upon seeing this man's sculpted features and beautiful wings, he thought Clearly, this man is an angel. Which means I must be dead.

* * *

Sherlock was certainly not pleased to see another human being. But, if he was going to be stuck out here in this empty terrain, he may as well have some form of protection(posture said this man was military, and he looked like he was carrying a handgun which could be pickpocketed), and some form of heat, as well. Yes, heat would be more necessary, he decided. With his body being so terrible at storing heat, he was certain to freeze when night fell. It was already evening, and he was on the verge of hypothermia. How annoying.

But luckily for Sherlock, this man was clearly expecting to have been out in the cold, and so he must at least have matches. When he got closer, though, he was disappointed to see that this man was in quite bad shape. With a long suffering sigh, he spread his wings, and grabbed the man by the shoulders. With one hard flap, he took off into the air, (no easy feat while carrying a man of this stature) and began looking for a forest to shelter them.

After ten minutes of flying, (flying was so much faster why hadn't just done this initially) he found a lovely coniferous forest. He began his descent into the trees and John shifted in his arms. Hmm. John had been awfully quiet for a man who had just been kidnapped and was being flown over a forest. Oh. John wasn't really conscious, then. He landed on the forest floor and found a spot under an old pine that had shielded the ground from the snow. He dragged John under, then promptly began to paw through his bag until he found what he was looking for. He broke off a few branches from above him, the wood was green, which wasn't desirable, bit at least it was dry enough to burn. He opened the matches and coaxed a fire into existence. He watched the smoke spiral up and disappear into the needles of the tree. Soon he had a healthy flame burning in the shallow pit he had dug for it.  
Feeling the warmth, John began to stir. Opening his eyes a crack, he asked in a soft voice, rough with cold and sleep.  
"Is this heaven?" he asked  
"You're not dead." Sherlock informed him. John sighed and let his eyes fall shut.  
"Good. I thought this was kinda shitty for heaven."  
"What makes you so sure you weren't going to hell?" Sherlock inquired.  
John opened one eye to inspect Sherlock. "I thought you were an angel," he laughed softly.  
"No, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for a second that I am one of them."  
John frowned. "Fine then, if you're not an angel, then what are you? You don't look quite human."  
"Human?...No. Not really my area."  
"Oh? Well, that's fine. It's all fine, really. I don't care if you're not entirely human, it's nice to talk to a person." John gave him a wan smile.  
He held out a hand. "John Watson."  
"Sherlock Holmes."He took it briefly. "How long has it been since your village exiled you?" Sherlock ventured.  
"Hmm? …Four days ago. How'd you know that?"  
"Your bag's got plenty of supplies, so clearly you knew you were going to be traveling, but there are very few people who would be out in this weather, certainly not voluntarily. Typical vagabonds will have found a temporary place to stay. So, criminals, outlaws, unemployed. But you're not a criminal, you're a healer, judging by the variety of medical supplies in your bag. True, most people would carry bandages, but your collection is quite extensive, far beyond a basic traveler's. You've been well taken care of until recently, so you've been somewhere where you can live comfortably. Quite sure that it wasn't the wilderness. But, no village would just toss their healer out, so you've done something to upset them."  
John stared at him.  
"That was amazing. You're brilliant."  
It was Sherlock's turn to stare now. He's called him amazing. That was new. New was interesting. John was interesting. He wanted to know more. Very softly, he asked, "What made them do that?"  
John inhaled and exhaled deeply. "Arson. Burned down half the village, destroyed people's homes, including my own," he shut his eyes tightly and added very carefully and quietly, "my sister burned, too."  
"You didn't start the fire, did you?"  
"No. But it started from the apothecary, and I had been the only one there. I don't know who started the fire, but I ran, and they could only assume it was me who had done it, and caused so much devastation. I'm sort of a fugitive now."  
Sherlock hummed in response, his eyes were fixed on the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames.  
"But enough about me," John continued, a little louder, hoping to snap Sherlock out of his trance, "Why are you out here?"  
"I don't really do people. Unless they're dead."  
John gave him a skeptical look so he elaborated, "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world."  
John sat up. "So, what do you do, just go from place to place hoping there's someone who's been murdered?"  
"No, I go to wherever there's a good murder. Or at least I do when the weather is more agreeable. Travel is significantly slowed when I'm forced to walk instead of fly."  
"Why don't you fly?"  
"Let's just say there are people who I'd rather not know of my whereabouts."  
"All right, then, be mysterious, I'm going to sleep." John rolled on to his side, back to Sherlock and the fire, using his bag as a pillow and his damp coat as a blanket.  
Stupid, Sherlock thought, to sleep under something wet. He removed the coat from John, ignoring his protests, and hung it on a branch above the fire.  
"Oi, what're you doing?"  
"You're a moron."  
He removed the Belstaff, it was dry by now, and draped it over John.  
"You're stupid," John retaliated half-heartedly.  
"Just a moment ago I recall you calling me brilliant."  
"Yeah, well, I'm taking it back."  
"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said, wrapping his wings around himself to keep warm.  
"Goodnight Sherlock."

* * *

John awoke just as the light of dawn was barely beginning to show on the horizon, as he always did. He shifted under the warm weight on him. The unfamiliar smell was pleasant, and he was hesitant to return to consciousness. Unfamiliar. That was wrong. He sat up abruptly, the strange coat sliding off him as he did so. He heard wood snapping under the weight of something nearby. Fearing death, he twisted his neck sharply toward the sound.

Sherlock. It was Sherlock. He listened to his heartbeat slowing back down to normal. Of bloody course it was Sherlock. Naturally awake before John, probably for a long time, too. He was already stamping out the remains of the fire.

"Sherlock, what-" he began, but was interrupted.  
"About time you woke up, John. Come on, we've got work to do. We must be off."  
"What? Where are we going? Why?"  
"We've got a case."  
John hurriedly packed up his things, donned his now dry coat and set off running after Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

John Watson was interesting. Very interesting. Or perhaps he was just mental. Oh well, he'd be able to get on with mental. But John Watson didn't question things, no, he just accepted them with that look of his. The one that he meant to appear unapproving, but look deeper and Sherlock could see him thrumming with excitement. (A/N: damn, I really want mashed potatoes right now and I couldn't explain why. Sorry, off topic but that's how my brain works.) John clearly enjoyed adrenaline, and that was perfect. Very loyal, and they'd only just met.  
He heard a crunching approaching him. Good, John was already catching up. Remarkably quick, too, with the limp in his gait.  
"Stop that."  
"Stop what?"  
"Limping."  
John looked offended. "Excuse me-?"  
"Your limp is psychosomatic. Physically, there's nothing wrong with you and there's really no reason for you to be struggling like this."  
The unwilling vagrant gave a resigned sigh. He settled for what had to be a reasonable question. "So, where are we going?"  
"A little village called Baskerville."  
"Oh, and what's there?"  
"Apparently, they've got a problem with dogs in the woods, but dogs don't murder people. Not in this multitude. If they're dogs at all, they certainly aren't normal."  
"Oh okay. Yeah, of course. And how do you know this? How do I know you aren't dragging me off to kill me in the woods?"  
Sherlock huffed an impatient breath. "John, honestly, if I were going to kill you, wouldn't I have done so whilst you were passed out under my care in a deserted forest on a winter night?"  
John started to argue, but the consulting detective did have a point there. Instead, he elbowed Sherlock in the ribs.  
"Still doesn't explain how you know about these killings. Oh, wait, don't tell me, you just sense them. Like a magic power?"  
Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, I don't 'sense' them, the crows tell me."  
"Oh, so you talk to animals now? Because that's not magic in any way, shape, or form."  
"Not all animals, just birds. Part avian," he half- shrugged, half shuffled his wings in a gesture.  
John just hummed in response, but Sherlock could see the the smile on his face.  
So, the winged man and the wanderer headed off to Baskerville.

* * *

Upon arriving in Baskerville, Sherlock swept John into an inn almost immediately. Sighing, the healer just said in a resigned manner, "I won't bother to ask, Sherlock, just explain."  
"You with all of your traveling gear will attract unwanted attention. It's easier if we have a secure place to keep our things."  
"…And also a warm place to stay, right? A safe room to sleep in?" That couldn't be too much for him to hope for, could it?  
"Oh, yes, of course, that too, though I sincerely doubt we'll be doing much sleeping, John."  
The detective's words got a few odd looks from a handful of people, including John. He had to try very, very hard to clamp his mouth shut.  
Sherlock strode up to a table and inquired about lodgings.  
"I'll need a room for a few nights," he mumbled to the innkeeper.  
Beginning to spout a price as she turned, she stopped abruptly when she saw Sherlock.  
"That'll cost yo- Sherlock? Oh my dear, stay as long as you like, won't cost you a penny! There will always be room for you here, as well as for your boyfriend, too," she tittered happily.  
"I'm not his… boyfriend…" John trailed off, as the old woman grabbed a set of keys, and began leading them up a staircase.  
"Thank you, Hudders," Sherlock said simply. To John, he added, "Go ahead and unpack, we'll be here a few days."  
Upon reaching the top of the staircase, 'Hudders' opened the door to room 221B.  
"There's two bedrooms, but that's only if you'll be needing them," she gave them a wink, and just like that, she disappeared.  
"You know her?" he began on his way up the stairs.  
"Her husband was sentenced to execution. once," Sherlock followed him up.  
"So you got him out of it?" He turned his head to glance at Sherlock as he turned the knob of the bedroom door.  
"Oh no, I ensured it." He smiled.  
"…Right," John began to unpack his things, or, what few possessions he had bothered to take with him on his unexpected journey.  
He noticed Sherlock scrutinizing every object as he pulled it out of his rucksack. The winged man watched him carefully, analyzing how carefully he handled each item. His clothes were clumsily thrown in a drawer. His haphazard collection of medical supplies was delicately placed on a table. A gun was hastily nestled into the drawer between the clothes. A dagger was carefully placed on the stand by the bed. It was old, and on the ornate side. The hilt was silver plate, with a topaz on each side where the hilt met with the blade./A family heirloom, Sherlock concluded. John wouldn't purchase something that was anything but practical. The style of the blade looked like it matched that of about fifty years or so back.

"Your grandfather's blade, I presume?" he wanted to check if he was correct.

John looked momentarily dumbfounded, then he let out a short breath. "Of course you're right, bloody spot on."

"Do you realize you do that aloud?"

"What, what do people usually do?"

"I've had swords at my throat plenty of times," Sherlock admitted.

John laughed. "Only you could provoke that many people with just your words."

"Special skill of mine," Sherlock couldn't suppress his grin. He did feel things, sometimes, and he found it felt nice to make John laugh.

* * *

As much as John would've liked to have spent at least a few hours in 221B where it was warm and John could sit in a chair for once, a simple luxury he found he had taken for granted. But Sherlock wouldn't have any of it. A crow landed on the windowsill, and Sherlock opened the window for it. The crow squawked at him, and he nodded before sending the crow off. The poor doctor was dragged from the warm chair by the fireplace almost as soon as he sat down, and pulled back out into the snow. John grumbled, but went along with it.

"Where are we going? _Please, _Sherlock you will at the very least tell me what we're doing in the cold when we could be indoors," John tried to sound threatening, but the effect was ruined by the chattering of his teeth.

"We're going to see a man about a dog," he responded.

John couldn't deny that he was excited. He picked up his speed a little bit, eager to get to wherever they were going.

When they did arrive at a quaint little pub, John was briefly instructed, "Two sugars," and left to his own devices while Sherlock found an unremarkable man and began speaking to him. While they spoke John ordered two coffees, one black and one with two sugars. He was grateful to have something hot to drink if he couldn't have a fireplace.

He thanked the man who handed him the warm cups and took them over to where Sherlock was seated at a table. He set Sherlock's coffee in front of him. Sherlock didn't thank him, but John wasn't surprised. He just sniffed and put on his mildly irritated expression, hoping he would notice and apologise. He didn't. John tried to express his irritation through sipping his coffee, but quickly realised it was pointless. Coffee couldn't be sipped in any manner at all. It could only simply be sipped. The thought bothered John, and he sipped his coffee angrily.

John was thankful he had at least gotten to finish his drink before Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder, and soon he found he was once again being led by the wrist to places unknown by a winged detective.

He was anxious to see where they were going. Excited, but also worried. He could never know what to expect from Sherlock Holmes.

When they arrived in the forest, John felt a bit out of place. The winged man truly was in his element, solving crimes in the woods. He looked like he really belonged here. John felt like he didn't really belong anywhere anymore, but nonetheless this somehow felt correct to him. He jogged to catch up to Sherlock.

Sherlock was crouched over a set of disturbingly large paw prints. He turned and looked up at John.  
"These aren't from any canine I've ever encountered. They're very interesting. And there's more of these. There's going to be at least four of these; look at the amount of damage done to the brush over there."  
"So what does that mean?" John asked.  
"It means we're going on a hunt," he replied.  
"What? Now?"  
Sherlock scoffed. "No, not now, it's too bright outside. We'll wait until it's dark, preferably also snowing. Best to not be seen, cover your tracks. It'll lessen our chances of them detecting our presence first, we need the advantage so to make the probability of us getting killed lower."  
"Right," John huffed.  
"Well, come on, then, if you're so eager to get inside."  
Walking back to 221B, John felt like he had somewhere he belonged, even more so than in his old town. Yes, John Watson belonged at Sherlock's side.

* * *

Sherlock woke John just as the sun began to set. John was a great deal more cheerful now that he was warm and rested, even the armchair he had drifted off in was infinitely more comfortable than a forest floor.  
On a reflex, he got up and started making tea. He noticed Sherlock was watching him, perched on a chair with his fingers steepled under his chin. Suddenly John felt incredibly self-conscious, and tried to make conversation in an attempt to remedy the discomfort.

"You didn't thank me when I brought you coffee. Rather impolite."  
"I was busy. I didn't notice"  
"but you did notice, because you drank it"  
"… I was still busy"  
"Where did you think it came from?"  
"I thought it sort of just… happened."  
John burst into a fit of laughter. "You're an idiot."  
"I'm a genius."  
"No, you are simultaneously the smartest man I've ever met, and the biggest idiot I've ever encountered."  
"So, what does that make me?"  
John thought for a moment. "Ridiculous."  
This time when John laughed, Sherlock laughed too.

After their laughter had died down, Sherlock asked, "Ready to go find some big murderous dogs?"

"You know what? Rather looking forward to it," John admitted, in a much better mood now. They donned their coats, John grabbed the gun from the drawer in his bedroom and they set off into the night.

Sherlock entered the forest soundlessly, John attempted to follow suit, but did a poor job of it. He winced with each step as he listened to numerous twigs snapping under his feet. He kept expecting Sherlock to scold him, but the criticism never came. The winged detective just continued silently deeper into the forest, John stumbled behind him, doing his best to keep up.

Sherlock stopped suddenly, putting a hand out to stop John as well. John scarcely dared breathe, for a moment, everything was completely and utterly silent. Then he heard a low growl. And then a deep rumbling to his left. And then he saw the eyes. They practically glowed, the deep reds and gold were so sharp and vibrant. The piercing glares almost reminded him of Sherlock. No, now is not the time to be thinking of Sherlock's eyes, he thought, now is the time to think. Now is the time to fight. Slowly, John reached for his gun. His hand didn't shake at all.

A paw with large, menacing claws stepped out of the shadows, followed by the rest of the furred beast. John silently prayed that Sherlock would spread his wings and get them out of there, but the trees must've been too thick for him to take off. He didn't know what Sherlock was doing, but he lifted the barrel of his gun and fired two shots.

Two dogs lay dead on the ground. If you could call them dogs. These animals were overly large, and something about them just wasn't natural. Sherlock turned to John.

"You killed them."

"Of bloody course I killed them, they were about to tear our throats out, Sherlock!"

"It's just… well, I didn't expect you to do that."

"What, save our hides?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I wasn't going to let them kill us John."

"Well, it didn't really seem to me like you had a plan, so I made my own," John retorted, but Sherlock wasn't listening anymore. He was already hunched over the body of the monstrosities, poking and prodding at it. He opened the mouth to look at the teeth, then let the jaw fall shut with a dull click. He stood up.

"Definitely unnatural. These are enormous and the forests here aren't exactly abundant with prey. This isn't right, how could they be this large…"

"Except for people," John cut in.

Sherlock stilled for a moment. Then, with a soft, "oh," he turned and grabbed John by the shoulders.

"Precisely, John." His face was almost startling. His bright eyes were wide, his features were already predatory, and his skin was so white he was nearly luminous in the night. He led John with a hand on the small of his back, bounding off deeper. John stopped questioning.

The detective led John on the trail of prints left in the snow, both were running, they needed to move quickly before the snow could cover the trail. Sure enough, they came to an ominous looking cave.

"This is it, John, the den." The satisfied smile on Sherlock's face would have been endearing in a different context. But then John thought_, screw context, if I'm messed up anyway, then Sherlock can be cute. _John smiled back.

"So what do we do now?" he asked.

"Now? We send for someone to take care of these," Sherlock responded. He lifted a long fingered hand into the air, and within moments, an owl came down out of the air to land perfectly on his wrist. He held out a note to the owl, who took it in its beak. "Take this to Gavin," he told it, and the bird flew off. John stared in amazement for a moment.

"That's amazing," he breathed, "how?"

Sherlock just smirked and shrugged his shoulders. John noticed him fluff his feathers a little. _He's actually preening under the compliment_, John thought.

"I thought crows were your thing?" he asked instead.

"I can communicate with any kind of bird. I just prefer certain types. Crows are the smartest, so I use them the most often. They aren't awake at night, nor can they fly well in the dark, so I opted for an owl instead."

The two men smiled at each other, and left for their temporary home. As they walked, John figured he had found where he belonged, and it was at Sherlock's side.

* * *

A/N: There will be more chapters, probably a few more stories, but this can stand alone if you want it to! Thanks for reading this, really it's the longest thing I've ever written.


	2. Interlude

**((You can ignore all this bold text here: So here's this! A second cute little story arc! Also, it's not good for this chapter, but I found a song called Vagabond by Misterwives, and it's kind of perfect and suits this story perfectly. Anyway, I truly hope you enjoy my shitty fantasy AU))**

It was pouring. Raining buckets and buckets. John hated being wet. Absolutely loathed it. All of his things got wet and it weighed him down. God, why did they have to leave that nice cozy place in Baskerville so soon? Sherlock at the very least could have chosen a day when when it wasn't pouring. The rain melted all the remaining bits of snow, uncovering the beginnings of spring.  
John hated spring. It was supposed to be a lush, refreshing season full of life. And yet, as the winter dripped away, it only uncovered the muddy, dead grass beneath it. It was wet, and squishy, the trees were bare and there was really nothing pretty about it. It wasn't even warm, just far enough above freezing for the ice to melt.  
"Sherlock, I really can't stand much more of this," he whined.  
"You'll survive, I'm sure," Sherlock stated coolly. That was not the reply John had been hoping to hear. He groaned loudly, hoping to annoy Sherlock in a weak attempt to get him to head his request. He frowned hard, and took another squelching step forward in his soaked boots. Sherlock somehow managed to look unfazed by the terrible conditions, but John was certain that he must be just as miserable as he was. But, the only indication he gave was a quick, smooth flick of his wings, droplets of water slipping off his slick feathers. It would've been a beautiful sight to behold, if said water droplets had not hit John in the face, adding to his irritation.  
John, in retaliation, leant down, scooped up a fistful of cold, slimy mud, and hurled it at the detective.  
It hit Sherlock squarely in the back of the head. His wings spread out wide in surprise, and Sherlock froze. John found his friend's reaction quite satisfying. Sherlock turned his head and glared at him. He flicked more water off his wings into the smug grin on John's face.  
It escalated from there. Needless to say, the two fully grown men ended up soaked and muddy in the pouring. To John's surprise, Sherlock had actually fought quite gallantly in their muddy warfare. But now there was the matter of being soaked and muddy. "That was a bad decision," John surrendered.  
"Now we'll just have to stand in the rain a little longer, won't we?" He responded with a smirk.  
"It's freezing," John complained. "Can't you just fly is somewhere?"  
"In this weather, John? Even you aren't that stupid."  
John did not grumble "you're stupid" under his breath. No. He was much too mature for that.

Eventually, Sherlock found a grove of pines that had sheltered the ground from enough of the rain that it was solid enough to set up camp. John groaned and threw his things and himself down on the dampened, needle-covered ground.  
"Sherlock, everything's wet, we're going to freeze."  
The winged man paused a moment at this, considering his words. His dark curls dripped with rain, and droplets slid easily off his oily feathers. He took a breath in and spoke, "there are blankets," he tried.  
John stared him down. He clearly hadn't even considered anything at all. Ever. John felt like slapping him for overlooking such an important thing. He slumped down, heaved a great sigh and answered Sherlock, "also sopping wet."  
Sherlock's face fell a little. He stopped to think again; how to please John? John was so picky. Always needing to eat, sleep, and now he had to be dry? Non-avians were so needy. "If we stay here, we could be dry in four hours," he offered, sitting down next to the man. John just sighed and began wringing out his coat. Once he had finished squeezing the water from what Sherlock noted was nearly everything he owned, he flopped down on his side on the pine needles, and announced that he was going to try and sleep and death would come to any who tried to stop him.  
Sherlock watched him for a while, cataloging his discomfort, (that position couldn't be comfortable for John, besides, he never slept on his side anyway, he wouldn't leave his back unguarded while he slept.) and noticing how he attempted to even his breathing to feign sleep. He must have known he couldn't fool the detective, but he was certainly going to do his damnedest.  
Said detective tsked once in disapproval, but if John had opened his eyes a smidgen, he might have noticed a hint of affection in the almost-smile on his face as he looked down upon the healer.  
John heard the pine needles shuffle as he took off his heavy Belstaff, and settled into the bed of pine next to him. Sherlock shuffled in close to John, who was shivering. He felt a pang of guilt at this, but pretended it was merely concern. It was concern, too, but he wouldn't admit to any feelings that might indicate caring. Caring was a disadvantage, he thought sternly to himself. But he did care for John. John was special, so he figured he could make an exception, just this once. And so he spread a great black wing out, then tucked it around John, covering him, sheltering him from the cold rain.  
John may have mumbled "thanks," but it was muffled by soft feathers and damp shirts, and slowly falling rain. Neither of them shivered for the rest of the night.


End file.
